


Hating Clint Barton

by sendal



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sandra writes fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:00:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4967242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sendal/pseuds/sendal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronald Slater knew his hatred of Clint Barton was irrational, but that wasn't going to stop him from teaching Barton a lesson or two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ronald Slater knows his hatred of Clint Barton is irrational, but that doesn’t stop him from poisoning Barton on the operation in Amsterdam. It’s not a deadly dose. Simply a few drops of a specialized liquid guaranteed to induce gastrointestinal distress. Colorless, odorless, untraceable. Slater used it a month ago during a mission to Barcelona and quite effectively sent a Spanish oligarch to his porcelain throne for several hours. Barton deserves the same.

It’s just the four of them on this op: Slater, Barton, a British comm expert named Lucy Heckles (known as Lucy Freckles, but never to her face) and Anders, a surly weapons tech. The safe house is the top floor of a building near the Van Gogh museum, a tourist-filled area choked with bicycles and pedestrians. They’re waiting for extract thirty-six hours from now. The quarters are modern but small. Two bedrooms, each with bunkbeds but no room for other furniture. One tiny bathroom and a bright kitchen with windows looking down at the street. Because Slater has bad luck, it’s raining today. It always rains when he’s in Amsterdam.

“I was guaranteed Lucy’s famous pancakes if I made that impossible shot,” Barton complains when he wanders into the kitchen mid-morning. He’s still sleep-mussed and yawning and huddled into the depths of a ridiculously purple hoodie. “I smell no pancakes.”

“The refrigerator’s empty,” Lucy Freckles says from behind the pages of a mildewy science fiction paperback left behind by some other agent. “I can’t make pancakes without milk or eggs.”

Anders is sprawled on the living room couch, smoking a cigarette and clicking a remote at the TV. “And the cable sucks.”

“I’ll be sure your complaints are duly noted,” Slater says drily. He learned long ago to ignore petty whining, especially at the tale end of an op when everyone just wants to go home. He hands Barton the coffee he’s already drugged. “At least we’ve got caffeine. And there’s some granola bars in that cupboard, along with plenty of soup and crackers. We won’t starve.”

Barton sips the coffee, eats a cherry granola bar, and watches the rain slant hard against the windows. He and Lucy Freckles find a crossword puzzle book and work on those for awhile. Lucy isn’t the kind of woman to flirt much but Slater thinks she has a fondness for Barton, which he finds perplexing. So what if he’s the best shot in SHIELD. The guy's an egotist and a jerk. Being an Avenger and getting to hang out with Captain America should be based on moral characteristics as well as technical prowess.

Slater tries not to think about the Avengers and how he should be part of that team. How his whole career he’s been overlooked and taken for granted. He washes the dishes, plays the part of genial team leader, watches some boring television with Anders, and observes with satisfaction when Barton grimaces and heads for the bathroom.

By mid-afternoon Barton’s clearly miserable and so are the rest of them, because Slater didn't really think about how they all have to share the one toilet in an apartment that doesn't have great air circulation. Anders makes muttered comments about the smell and hazardous material. Lucy Freckles checks the medicine cabinet and comes up with some anti-diarrhea pills that Slater knows will do no good. Barton retreats to his narrow bed to curl up and shiver. It sucks to be sick during an operation far from home. The rain hardens against the windows.

“If you think you need a doctor, I’ll try to arrange for a house call,” Slater tells him. “Your decision, Barton.”

Barton shakes his head. “Just ate something bad.”

“We’ve all been eating the same things for days now,” Lucy Freckles says. “If it’s a flu bug, we’re all going to get it. Can we get an earlier extraction?”

Slater pretends to consider the idea. “I can ask.”

“It’s just food poisoning,” Barton insists, because he’s a stupid hero with a massive ego and like his friends doesn’t want to admit weakness. Slater knows the type.

“Keep pushing the fluids and electrolytes,” Slater says. “We’ll soon be out of here.”

Sometime around midnight, when Barton’s lurching to the bathroom again, it occurs to Slater that maybe he put too much of the bad mojo in his coffee. He wishes he wasn't interrupting his own sleep with the ongoing drama. Anders decides to move to the sofa and Lucy makes noises about calling in the emergency code for field agent in distress. Slater talks her down. He doesn’t want the kind of attention that call would bring, and they don’t want to blow this safe house’s cover. There’s a good chance that the Russian mobsters they took out have friends combing through Amsterdam for foreigners matching their description. Better to stick to the current plan.

“Get some sleep,” Slater says to Lucy. “I’ll stay up with him.”

“I don’t need anyone ‘staying up with me,’” Barton says testily, crawling back under his covers. In the weak light of the overhead light he looks green-gray and sweaty, eyes ringed with dark circles. “Fuck off and let me sleep.”

“Once you drink this water,” Slater says. “You know you need it.”

Barton drinks the water, flops back down, and turns over to face the wall. Slater doesn’t mind. He takes the upper bunk and reads Frank Herbert for a while, grimly happy with himself. 

By morning Barton’s better, though still haggard and exhausted. He sleeps most of the day and then uses all of the hot water in the shower. At eighteen hundred hours, they leave the safe house under cover of dusk and are met by a canal boat that takes them to a van that brings them to Rotterdam. Barton is slow on his feet, but steady enough to get through airport lines to a civilian Lufthansa flight. The team is scattered through the coach cabin and Slater made sure that Barton's non-reclining seat was right in front of the lavatory. Not because he’ll need the toilet often, but because it’s one of the nosiest, smelliest seats to be stuck in for the long haul back to the United States. 

But after takeoff a pretty flight attendant flirting with Barton moves him up to first class, which ruins Slater’s day. He spends all of the flight stuck in his tiny seat in coach, imagining new ways to get his revenge. 

end of part one


	2. Chapter 2

Ronald Slater’s hatred of Clint Barton is irrational, but when he sees the opportunity to starve Barton in Antwerp, he takes it. 

Barton deserves it. A few weeks ago Slater saw him in the mess at SHIELD headquarters, plowing through plates of meatloaf and mashed potatoes and pie like the world was going to run out of food tomorrow. He, Captain America, and Black Widow were clustered in the corner, a cozy little fucking clique, and so what if they were all dirty and bruised from saving the world again? Slater had waited for Barton to catch his eye, to call him over, but Barton had been selfishly focused only on his food. Well, payback was a bitch.

 _You could send a pizza guy_ , Barton says via text. _I know they have pizza delivery here._

Of course they have pizza delivery in Belgium. NATO alone probably consumes a thousand pies a month. But there's also a van load of enemy nationals cruising Antwerp's port district and the warehouses that should be all shuttered tight on this Sunday night. They can’t afford to draw attention to Barton’s temporary and illegal accommodations over a machine shop. Hence the strict orders for Barton to stay away from the windows and keep the lights off.

Slater waits a few minutes before sending a reply. _I’m working on options. Hold tight._

It's just past sun down. Slater's monitoring the situation from their safe house in nearby Kapellen, which is warm and cozy and has a respectable amount of food in the small refrigerator. He decides to make a salad and cook himself a steak. He's chopping tomatoes when the third on this mission, Ronnie Robinson, returns from securing their burner phones and other gear.

"Word from Barton?" Robinson asks, warming himself by the electric heater. He's a little guy, wiry and intense, never content to sit when he could be standing and tapping a foot impatiently.

"Safe and secure," Slater says. "You hungry?"

"I could eat," Robinson allows.

Slater puts another steak into the frying pan and searches for onion in the vegetable bin. Can't have steak without onions. His secure comm goes off with a new message from 

Barton: I'm eating lead paint chips and freezing my nuts off.

Fucking whiner. Yes, he was on stakeout all day on the roof a factory, hunkered down against the cold rain, but he had protein bars and water with him. Probably spoiled by eating with asshole millionaire Tony Stark all the time. 

_Now I'm eating the floorboards,_ Barton sends.

Slater replies, _Don't whine to me when you get splinters in your mouth._

"I can go get him," Robinson says. 

"Too risky," Slater says. "Neighborhood's hot. There'd be a shitstorm if either of you got spotted and I'm no mood for an international incident tonight."

Robinson frowns. "You have no faith in us, boss."

"I have faith, but intel says they have infrared glasses," Slater says. "Grab the plates, will you?"

While they eat, he calculates out how long he can plausibly delay extraction. He doesn’t put it past Barton to eventually complain to all those superhero buddies of his or with Phil Coulson. Rumor is they're fuckbuddies. Lots of people are afraid of Coulson's competence and ruthlessness but Slater's seen better. In fact, he considers himself better

He thinks Barton will stay put and follow orders, because despite his well-earned reputation for recklessness, he’s a team player and the risk tonight is real. Sure, odds are that Barton and Robinson could evade detection, but why take chances? Barton's uncomfortable but not dying. 

_Hang in there,_ Slater types. _We'll come as soon as possible._

Overnight Robinson and Slater take turns napping on the sofa and staying in contact with Barton, whose messages grow shorter, less frequent, and more full of misspellings. The cold is settling into his fingers. Or maybe hypothermia affecting his thinking. Around oh three hundred he stops responding altogether, and Robinson wants to risk the extraction.

"He's sleeping," Slater says. "Poor bastard needs it. Now stop driving to drive this bus and relax, will you?"

Sure enough, two hours later Barton is back on comms, complaining about the cold and how much he hates Belgium. He sounds perkier, or maybe it's just that Slater feels more tired from babysitting him all night.

At dawn it's safe for Barton to move out, and they pick him up near the Red Star Line Museum. Unshaven, dirty, frowning, he slides into the back seat like any laborer or vagrant having a bad morning.

"Coffee and doughnuts," Slater says magnanimously. "Eat up."

"Yeah, it's the least you owe me," Barton grumbles, and grabs the thermos. But he doesn't fall on the doughnuts in ravenous hunger, so maybe he's sick. The prospect makes Slater happy.

From the passenger seat of the Land Rover, Robinson says, "Are you injured? You've got blood on your sleeve."

Barton fingers a red stain. "Nah. It's nothing."

On the train to Paris, Barton falls dead asleep in his seat. When Robinson goes to the snack car, Slater examines the red stain more closely. It smells like tomato sauce. He doesn't confront Barton about it, but he scours the net later and finds a few references to a shooting star seen in the skies over Antwerp around oh three hundred. 

Who fucking knew that Iron Man delivered pizza?

end of part two


	3. Chapter 3

Ronald Slater’s hatred of Clint Barton is so irrational that he's glad Barton's going to die soon, even though Slater will probably also die and thus be unable to celebrate.

They've been imprisoned in the dungeon of a dilapidated castle near Ghent for the better part of three days now, the monotony of stone and darkness broken up by occasional torture and periods of unconsciousness. The HYDRA goons who captured them during the end of a human trafficking op are much more interested in questioning Barton than they are Slater, which pisses him off. Surely he knows just as many important secrets and classified information as someone who spends most of his time shooting a bow and arrow.

"It's a bitch being popular," Barton says when they drag him back in and dump him on the floor, wrists and ankles zip-tied with some bonus duct-tape as well. 

He isn't bleeding anywhere obvious, but there's a livid bump on his forehead and he's twitching now and then as if they ran electric current through his muscles. Slater got his own personal electrotherapy shortly after they were captured, or maybe a few hours ago. It's hard to tell. Time is blurry. The HYDRA goons who slam the door behind them are talking in the Alemannisch dialect about an evacuation. Or maybe that's execution. Slater's no fan of German languages and should have paid more attention in school. 

"You tell them anything?" Slater asks from his corner. His shoulders and arms ache from muscle strain because he, too, is zip-tied and duct-taped, and it's all very annoying. He's been rubbing his hands against the stonework, trying to work off the tape, but it's hard to feel if he's making any progress with them laced so tightly behind his back.

Barton's voice is vague, his eyes closed. "My high school locker combination. First step toward world domination."

There's not much light, and the stonework muffles sound as if they were in a tomb. Slater would kill for a bottle of water. The hollow in his stomach is getting worse with every minute. The only solace is that the rest of their team got away, along with several young women and boys who'd been held prisoner here. Slater distracted the goons with grenades while Barton improvised a zip line over the former moat. 

Barton could have made his escape too, but like an idiot he came back for Slater. Stupid, stupid move.

The fact that rescue hasn't shown up either in the shape of SHELD or the Avengers tells Slater that the team and rescued victims didn't get far. They're probably dead in the forest surrounding this fortress, their cold bodies sprawled in the even colder snow. He tries not to think about how this is going to reflect on his service record.

"You going to move or just sprawl there helplessly?" he asks Barton.

"Sprawl," Barton says, sounding remarkably unconcerned. Which is an infuriating Barton habit, but is perhaps amplified by exhausted, concussion, or truth serum. HYDRA likes truth serum. They're lucky they haven't dosed Slater, because he'd tell them exactly what he thinks of them.

"Screw that." Slater rubs his hands harder against the stone wall. "I for one want to get out of here alive."

"Yeah. I haven't started my Christmas shopping yet."

"I don't care about your fucking shopping list, Barton," he says sharply. 

Barton's back arches a little as another muscle spasm works through him. His bare feet scrape against the floor. Slater's feet are bare, too. He misses his steel-tipped boots. Their trousers and thin shirts aren't much protection against the cold and damp air.

"It's a serious problem," Barton insists. "You try shopping for Nat."

Slater snorts. Agent Romanov is not on his gift list, nor she on his. He's never understood why SHIELD took her in and gave her a job, except for the part where she's remarkably ruthless and successful. 

"She must like you." Barton makes the effort to roll himself on his side. He flexes his arms behind him, but of course the tape and zip ties hold. "She asks all sorts of questions about you."

A thrill of alarm sets goose bumps along Slater's arms. "What kind of questions?"

"Oh, you know. Amsterdam. Something about Antwerp." Barton's back arches as he pulls his knees up to his chest in a fetal position. "She thinks you don't like me."

Slater holds himself very still, choosing between responses. "What is this, high school? Passing notes in study hall?"

"Never went to study hall. Always stuck in detention."

Barton twists his arms in a very painful looking way and then, to Slater's astonishment, loops them down around himself to pull his legs through. It's a fucking acrobat or yoga move that annoys Slater because he's not flexible enough to do the same. With his hands in front of him Barton begins to work on unwinding the wrist tape with his teeth. The clumsy and slow-going work leaves Slater with too much time to think about Romanov's questions. 

"A little faster, Barton," he says.

"You try it," Barton replies, or maybe that's "fuck you." It's hard to tell beneath all that tape.

Slater flexes his sore shoulders. "I don't know what Romanov is worried about. We make a good team. I give the orders, you follow them."

Barton's next response definitely sounds vulgar. 

"I work with people all over SHIELD," Slater insists. He rests his aching head against the wall. "Personal feelings don't matter. We get the job done. She doesn't like that, she should talk to me. I'm very approachable."

Finally snagging the edge of the tape, Barton begins to laboriously unwind it. He doesn't answer.

Slater says, "I worked my ass off in Amsterdam to make sure we got the job done. In Antwerp, I was up all night trying to keep you grounded. Not my fault you had to hole up. Why would Romanov think it's my fault?"

He wonders, briefly, if their captors actually did does him with truth serum while he wasn't looking. He feels like he's talking more than he should, but doesn't really care.

"Nobody appreciates how hard it is to make things go smoothly," he complains.

Barton gets the tape off completely and spits the tangled mess of it aside. The zip tie is next. Slater knows lots of ways to get out of those. They've done training. Easy to snap if you swing your arms down correctly and break the little clamping jaw. But Barton's just shimmying his off by twisting his hands. Goddamned acrobat.

Slater maybe closes his eyes while Barton frees his ankles, because he's sick of the show-off. The next thing he knows, Barton is manhandling Slater away from his corner to work on freeing him, too.

"Don't zone out on me now." Barton looms so close that Slater can smell his bad breath. Or maybe that's his own. Barton asks, "You good to run for it?"

Wearily, Slater says, "I'm a faster runner than you'll ever be, Barton."

Barton snorts. 

First they have to get through the wooden door, which is at least three inches thick and has an ancient, rusty keyhole. Slater rubs circulation back into his tingling hands while Barton works on the lock with a paper clip he stole during his last interrogation. Barton's fingers are a little unsteady, as are his legs, and Slater can't afford for him to screw this up.

"Let me try," he says when Barton starts to sway.

"My eyesight's better," Barton replies.

"Not if you're seeing double." 

A smirk. "Twice as fun."

From somewhere far above them, a muffled thump reverberates through the stone. It sounds like an explosion. Or missile. Or something else equally dangerous to their health. A second explosion follows a few seconds behind, powerful enough to shake dust from the ceiling and rock the floor. 

Slater says, "Now's a good time to hurry."

"Tell me something I don't know," Barton snaps, and the lock clicks open beneath his fingers.

The narrow passageway outside leads past empty cells to a twisting staircase. They're almost to the top when the next explosions. much closer, reverberate through the stone. The string of lights bolted to the wall start to flicker and dance themselves loose. The ceiling begins raining down, the steps collapsing. Slater puts his hands on his head, as if that's going to do any good against the crush of a thousand tons of rubble, and yells through the deafening noise, "We're going to die!"

Barton grabs his right arm arm and hauls him through a doorway to land in a long hall of tall windows. It's not much of an improvement, because the windows too are collapsing. Lethal stained glass tumbles out of old lead panes and shatters on the floor around them like shrapnel. Twenty feet away, twin doors lead to a snow-covered patio and a sky full of fire and smoke. Getting to them is like trying to cross the heaving deck of a ship.

The floor cracks open and Barton trips. Slater keeps going. He can't barely hear anything thanks to the noise, can't see much thanks to the smoke, doesn't know much other than he's going to die if he stops. Adrenaline whips his heart faster and faster, and he's covered in cold sweat. Before he reaches the doorway he glances back and sees Barton on the floor, trying to get up but not able to. 

"Hey!" Slater yells, or maybe that's "Help!" He can't hear himself. But he certainly isn't going to stop to save Barton. He turns back to the doors, which have fallen off their hinges. Lurches toward them. The whole fucking castle is coming down and he, for one, will survive it. Five steps to safety, four, three -- 

The sky itself seems to explode. The concussive blast drives him backward, tumbles him to land on some kind of cushion, and then there's nothing but bleakness and black.

#

Afterward there are a couple of days of confusion and painkillers and conversations he doesn't remember, but eventually Slater opens his eyes and the hospital room isn't shaking or spinning or ringing with noise. That's good. Steve Rogers is sitting in the corner, reading a Dutch newspaper. That's maybe not so good. Thin sunlight through the window highlights him in gold.

"Good morning," Rogers says. "I didn't want you to wake up alone. That's always disappointing."

Slater has exchanged maybe twenty words with the guy since he was defrosted, but is oddly comforted by the idea someone would do that for him.

Roger continues, "We're grateful for what you did for Clint during the rescue. Shielding him with your body like that probably saved his life, even though it cost you thirty stitches."

That perhaps explains why he's sleeping on his side, a thick swaddling of bandages on his back. Slater's sure the doctors explained his injuries to him, even if he can't quite recall all the details. Someone also told him about HYDRA booby-trapping the castle and how the Avengers had to defeat a number of bombs before they could move in for a rescue. Obviously they missed some. What was once an impressive bit of real estate is now a pile of rocks. 

Not that Slater cares, but it seems right to ask, "How's he doing?"

Rogers' somber expression lightens a little. "Doing better. They're going to try and wean him off the respirator today. He seems like he's ready to wake up."

As far as Slater is concerned, Barton doesn't have to wake up ever. It would be a relief to have him off the planet. But it would be irrational to tell that to the leader of the Avengers, so he prudently keeps his mouth shut. 

end of chapter


	4. Chapter 4

Clint Barton knows that many people hate him, and he can live with that.

His father, for starters. His brother, though that's mixed with a toxic sort of love that Clint still can't figure out and probably won't ever be able to, given that Barney is in prison for several more decades to come. Also hating him: carnies jealous of his success, families of people he'd killed on the job, the loved ones of people he'd killed under Loki's control. 

And the night nurse here in the military hospital in England, where he'd been evacuated to after that clusterfuck in Ghent. She's curt and impatient and has unbelievably cold hands. She can also kill him if she wants. A simple syringe injected into his IV line or gas injected into his oxygen canula and then it's bye, bye Clint.

"She's not going to kill you," Natasha told him when he whispered this fear. "You're on a lot of drugs, ptichka, and they're affecting your emotions."

That's possibly true. It's also possibly true Nat's just a hallucination, and he's still in the dungeon where the men will soon return with electricity and fists. Ronald Slater's no help; he's a skeleton in chains in the corner, teeth bared in a rictus. Clint can see him sitting right next to Thor.

"I assure you this chamber contains no skeletons," Thor says, looking up from the game he's playing on a tablet.

"He's right there," Clint insists. "I couldn't save him."

Natasha taps on Clint's arm. It's a private code meant to be reassuring. "He's in the next room. Complaining about the food."

"I'm going to talk to your doctor," Bruce says. He knows a thing or two about not trusting one's own mind.

Clint wants Phil, but Phil is on the other side of the world. New Zealand. Which, Tony tells him, is only eleven thousand miles away, so not quite the exact other side of the world, and Natasha tells him he's not helping.

Clint closes his eyes.

That's frequently a mistake, because in the darkness the ground will begin to tremble, and shattering glass will pinwheel toward him at deadly velocities, and he'll feel himself fall helplessly to the heaving floor and not be able to move, to escape, to save himself. Dust chokes him and the terrific roar of collapsing stone drowns out his screams for help. The bedside monitor will start beeping an alarm at his spiked heartbeat, and he jerks his eyes open to the ceiling, the shaded windows, Natasha or Steve or whoever else happens to be in the room.

They tell him he's fine, but he wants Phil.

#

By the end of the week he's much less afraid of falling asleep and in fact manages three whole hours in a row without tripping over nightmares. The doctor in charge of his case is pleased with his progress and the physical therapists have him walking up and down the hall with IV pole in tow. He's frustrated at how the concussion has left his sense of balance all wonky, but everyone assures him that he's getting steadier and gaining stamina.

Steve, Thor, and Tony depart back to the U.S., where supervillains await vanquishing. Natasha and Bruce stay on. Clint tells them to go relax, get some sightseeing done, but Natasha gives him a look that tells him he's being foolish and Bruce is quite happy with the reading he's catching up on. The two of them are very much in love, which makes Clint happy for his best friend yet sorely heartsick at the same time. 

"You're getting discharged in a few days," Phil says over the secure video link on Clint's phone. "I'll meet you back in New York."

"Soon?" Clint hates how needy that sounds. He's trying to be strong about everything. Trying not to worry too hard that his balance is permanently damaged, his ability to work in the field impaired, his career basically over. The Avengers won't need him. Phil will promise that everything will work out but be pulled into new missions that exclude Clint to the point where their relationship fails-- 

"As soon as I can," Phil promises. "I hate not being there. I should just call this op—"

"No. You've worked too hard. Your whole team has." Clint's not so selfish as to throw away all that intel and effort. He fidgets with the edge of his bedsheet. Rain sleeting from dark skies against the windows has him feeling particularly gloomy this evening. "I'm going to be really happy to see you."

Phil's face softens. "Likewise."

They talk about little things before Phil has to go and see to details of his mission. Clint tries not to look at the chair that Natasha has come to call her own. He and Bruce finally persuaded her to go back to the hotel for a nice hot dinner that wasn't served on plastic plates. He has her their cell phone numbers and told himself he was looking forward to a night by himself, if "by himself" included the hospital staff who came in every hour looking to draw blood, administer his meds, or take his vitals. But now he's lonely, and his ribs hurt, and it feels like forever since he's had a hot shower.

Counting backward he realizes it's not been forever, but more than week. Well, he can remedy that. He gets out of the bed cautiously and is relieved that the room is more or less steady. The IV came out this morning, so he no longer has to drag that around. In the shower stall he sits on the corner bench and uses the detachable nozzle to avoid the line of stitches in his scalp. The hot water is amazing on his skin and the steam loosens some of the dryness in his chest. 

"Mr. Barton?" The curt night nurse doesn't come further than the doorway. "You're supposed to call for assistance."

"I'm fine," he says. "Thanks for checking."

The disapproval in her voice doesn't diminish, but she says, "I'll leave a fresh gown on the counter and see that you have fresh sheets."

Her shadow moves past the shower glass and then retreats. Clint washes himself down, annoyed at feeling stiff and sore, jealous that Steve Rogers and Thor would have already healed up after injuries like his. Watching the soapy water swirl down the drain, he tells himself that being a mere mortal without super serum or godly powers really can suck sometimes. But he survived, which is the important part. Survival means getting to see Phil again, and that's something worth fighting for.

A jaw-cracking yawn makes him realize he's falling asleep tucked up against the wall. Begrudgingly he shuts off the water and steps out. The shelf by the sink holds only a few small hand towels, which is annoying. He thought he remembered a bigger one there. The fresh gown is missing, too. Didn't the nurse bring one in? He has to put on the old one and blot himself with the small towels. He's still wet in places when he heads back to bed, where fresh sheets lay crisply on the mattress.

A knock on the door catches him while he's getting settled back in the bed, wet splotches and all. 

"Barton?" Ronald Slater asks. "You decent?"

"Yeah," Clint replies. "Come in."

Despite their matching hospital gowns, Slater looks pretty healthy for a guy who nearly got guillotined while shielding Clint from glass and other debris. He says, "They're springing me free in the morning. You?"

"A few more days," Clint says. "Thanks to you. Otherwise I'd be dead."

Because that's what everyone has told him. Slater saved his life. Clint doesn't remember much about it, and so he goes with it. Steve Rogers himself had pulled away a slab of rubble, certain he would find only corpses below, and found that by some miracle of good fortune they'd been trapped in protected pocket, Slater still covering Clint from the worst of it.

Slater ducks his head, uncharacteristically bashful. "Well, you know. You'd do the same. You did do the same—you could have escaped when you helped the kids over that moat, but you came back for me."

Clint remembers that more clearly. He shifts on the sheets, unhappy with how they feel on his bare legs. Someone really went overboard with the detergent on them. "Never leave anyone behind. It's a good rule."

"Yeah." Slater reaches out his hand. "So we're even. I'll catch you later."

One handshake later and Slater is gone, which is a relief because Clint's legs are really itchy and the pillows don't feel right under his back. He rearranges himself and kicks off the sheets. He's suddenly fatigued, the effort of the shower overwhelming him, but not too tired to notice the redness springing up along his left leg. His right leg looks similarly irritated.

Clint tells himself to take a deep breath, but a cough interrupts him.

He tells himself not to panic, because the nurse is only a few steps away. He pushes the ringer and waits. He can handle this; his body's unhappy at something, but he's still clear-headed and not going to panic. 

Ten seconds, twenty. He can hear it pinging down the hallway at the station, but no one answers. 

He reaches for his cell phone, which should be under the pillows. It's gone. Clint gropes for it. His hand starts to burn. He twists around and there it is, on the floor. There's an alarm in the bathroom. He'll have to get to that. Clint lurches to his feet, ignores the dizzy way the walls swim in and out, and puts a hand on the wall to steady himself. He can do this. Five steps, ten. The bathroom is still steamy from his shower. He yanks the cord by the toilet and then sits on it, otherwise he'll crash to the floor.

Five seconds, ten. A blurry figure in white appears in front of him, her cold hands touching his knees. "Mr. Barton! What's wrong?"

Behind her is another blur, but this one has Ronald Slater's voice. "He looks like he's sick. Barton, what is it?"

"Allergy," he manages. "Something in the bed."

Slater says, "Goddamn it. All right, listen, you're going to be fine. You hear me, Barton? You can handle this." To the nurse, "He's allergic to latex. It's in his records." 

The nurse calls out to someone. "It's anaphylaxis. Get the kit—"

He loses track of what she's saying. Loses track of up and down, fresh air and stale. Apologizes silently to Phil, because maybe they won't be seeing each other soon after all. Or ever again. 

End of chapter


	5. Chapter 5

Ronald Slater's hatred of Clint Barton is so irrational that although he despises the guy, he's incensed that he's not invited to Barton's birthday party in the Caribbean.

"Save a guy's life twice, this is how you get repaid," he says to Lucy Freckles as they sit in a rented truck in Veere, waiting for some Eurotrash terrorists to show up and claim their stash of bioweapons. "You end up stuck in the middle of nowhere while he's off having fun."

He doesn't add, "and getting a whole island of people to kiss his ass" because he doesn't want anyone to think he's been stewing over this. 

Donnie Robinson, who Slater hasn't seen since Antwerp, says, "You want an invite in gold ink, Ron?" 

"I don't want an invite at all," he says.

Lucy Freckles hums in the passenger seat. "You protest too much."

Barton's birthday party has been the topic of gossip for weeks, and in the typical evolution of such things has somehow grown in the storytelling from a small party of friends and co-workers to a star-studded gala with celebrity musicians and a private fireworks show and probably a special flyover from the local air force. They say it's going to be on a private island. They say Tony Stark _bought_ the fucking island for Barton.

Clearly some rumors are more outlandish than others. Not that Slater pays attention to them. Not that he wants to stab a fork through the eye of the next person who asks him if he's going. 

No, he's not fucking going. He has no desire to go. 

Still, you save a guy's life, you should get an invitation. Gold ink or not.

Down the lane, a milk truck pulls up to the house they've been watching. Slater's heartbeat picks up at the prospect of some action. The door opens, and the housewife they've got under surveillance pays for a jug of milk. Fucking Netherlands. Slater's going to die from boredom. There's nothing to shoot at, no bad guys to catch, nothing that will look good when he writes up a report of this mission. He'd bomb something himself if it meant a good evaluation. 

He catches himself on that thought. It seems a bit extreme. A bit irrational.

Lucy says, "I hear he's still out on disability. Seems like it's been a long time."

Three months. Slater's back itches with remembered stitches as he recalls falling glass, sooty air, the world crashing down. He wonders if Barton is dragging out his recovery. Collecting disability while hanging out with his boyfriend. Playing with of those high tech toys at the Avengers tower while hard-working agents labor in the field. A guy like that deserves to have his throat close up in anaphylactic shock. 

Again, a tiny wiggle in the back of his mind makes him wonder why his hatred of Barton is so extreme, or even when it started. He didn't always hate him. If he tries hard, he can remember liking Barton when he first got hired. Great shot, awesome athleticism. You couldn't watch him on the rock wall at the gym without admiring his dexterity and fearlessness. Sure, there was lots of envy, but Slater had long ago grown used to the idea that every agent at SHIELD brought something special to the job--

Lucy Freckles touches his arm. "I see movement in the upper window."

False alarm. The Eurotrash never show up and they call the op a wash. Slater stews about Barton's party all the way back to the U.S. and their debriefing at headquarters. At lunch in the cafeteria, he's waiting at the grill for a hamburger when he hears Steve Rogers behind him.

"Good to see you on your feet," Rogers says warmly. His lunch tray contains an enormous green salad and two apples. Figures he's a health nut. "Back in the field?"

Slater takes his burger from the grill cook. "European division, same old terrorists every day. How's Barton?"

Not that he fucking cares, of course, but the question is expected.

"Doing better." Rogers moves toward the cashier. "Still recovering. You know, he had a lot of things thrown at him."

And Slater would be happy to throw more. Ecstatically happy.

Bruce Banner, rumpled and unshaven, is waiting for Rogers just beyond the cash registers. He looks like he hasn't slept in a few days. He nods at Slater as if they know each other, but they don't aside from a brief introduction back at the military hospital. Slater thinks that of all the Avengers, the Hulk is the most awesome. A creature that can smash and rage without worry about social norms is exactly Slater's kind of hero.

"His birthday party's on Saturday," Rogers says after they pay and move into the dining room. Banner bypasses a table with two chairs and finds a larger one. Slater tries not to look too excited at being tacitly invited to join them. About fucking time. Rogers continues, "You should come. Clint wouldn't have much to celebrate if you hadn't saved his life."

"Twice," Slater can't help but say.

"Twice?" Banner asks, puzzled.

"Ronald found him when he was having allergic reaction," Rogers says. "Got the doctor in there right away."

Slater tries to sound modest. "The medical staff did all the work. I just happened to be in the right place to notice the problem." 

Banner starts opening little cups of creamer and dumping them into his coffee cup. "I hear they're still trying to figure out how that happened. The latex being exposed to his bedsheets and all. Coulson's leading that investigation."

Of course it would be Coulson. Let him try to figure it out. Slater has the utmost confidence that there will be no camera footage, no witnesses, no forensic evidence. He's just that good.

Rogers says, "So you should come to the party."

Slater hesitates only a split-second over his answer. "I don't know where it is."

"Near St. Thomas." Banner gulps at his coffee and makes a face at its bitterness. "Supposed to be nice down there."

Rogers says, "We're taking a Stark jet down tomorrow night. I'll put you on the passenger list. Leaves from White Plains."

Slater pretends to have qualms. "What kind of gift would I bring?"

Rogers gives him a patient look. "You saved his life. That's enough of a gift."

Banner dumps sugar into his coffee. "If you want to contribute, we're collecting for the local schools. Barton's idea." 

Of course the golden boy would come up with something fucking charitable. Slater doesn't believe the "aw shucks" humility of it all. He's always suspected Barton's story of growing up in a carnival is fabricated. Guy probably grew up in a tony suburb, played football or baseball, had every privilege possible.

Roger says, "So you'll come?" with such sincere eagerness that Slater can't help but want to please him.

"Sure," he says. "Count me in."

Packing for a tropical island getaway should be easy, but it's like packing for an interview. Which Slater suspects this is. Rogers hasn't said anything of the sort, but you don't get invited to fly with the Avengers on Tony Stark's jet without understanding there will be scrutiny along the way. Probably they've grown tired of waiting for Barton to recuperate and want to fill his slot. Slater will be happy to show them he's just as talented, capable, and heroic. He agonizes over his wardrobe choices for half the night, runs out the next morning to drop several hundred dollars on casual attire, and then spends the day laundering and packing until it's time to drive out to the airport. The Stark jet on the tarmac is sleek and golden in the late afternoon light and the flight attendant at the stairs gives him a brilliant smile.

"Welcome aboard," she says warmly, and Slater wonders if maybe she can provide special services in flight. He'd like to see her out of that crisp blue uniform as soon as possible.

Once aboard, however, he nearly forgets about her due to the sheer opulence of the jet--the wide leather seats, deep brown carpeting, cozy tables covered with white tablecloths and fine china, and several pieces of artwork that would fetch a pretty price at auction. A dinner buffet is set up on the sideboard, sizzling with the smells of lobster and steak. Tony Stark is sprawled in a corner chair, his tie undone and jacket strewn aside, typing furiously on a tablet and talking on a bluetooth while a pretty assistant guides him through a sheaf of papers to sign. Stark catches Slater's eye and gives him a thumbs up. Slater is pleased. Not that he's fond of so much wealth concentrated on one person, but when Tony Stark likes you, all sorts of doors open wide.

Steve Rogers waves him to the sofa where Natasha Romanov and Bruce Banner are eating finger foods. Banner raises a lazy hand and Romanov favors Slater with a neutral look, neither fond nor actively hostile. He thinks that's an encouraging sign.

"Glad you could make it," Rogers says. "We have a few more passengers we're waiting for, including the guest of honor. Hungry? Fix yourself a plate."

Slater is heaping some golden shrimp on a plate when he hears Lucy Freckles say, "I see you got your golden ticket. We both did."

Surprised, Slater looks over his shoulder to the group that's just arrived - Lucy, Donnie Robinson, Jasper Sitwell, Melinda May, and some other agents he doesn't know well but which he presumes are here on Barton's request. He's a little miffed that they're all along. He was counting on being part of an exclusive list, not a damn open invitation.

"I'm happy to help Barton celebrate any way he wants to," Slater says to Lucy, but his real audience is nearby Romanov and Banner. 

Lucy's smile is all too knowing. "I bet you are."

He'd like to punch her, but that would probably make a bad impression. He settles in a chair with his food and lets a second flight attendant pour him a glass of champagne. The seat is the most comfortable one he's ever sat on. He deserves to fly like this all the time, he decides. Fuck the rich like Stark; he's all for socialism if it gets him a seat on a G2. 

Through the round window he sees a Lincoln towncar roll across the tarmac to the jetway. The chauffeur opens the rear passenger door for Philip Asshole Coulson, who emerges in sunglasses and a dark suit as if going to a funeral and not a party. Coulson in turns helps Barton out. Despite the June sun Barton is dressed in a heavy hoodie and jeans, his sunglasses framing a pale face. When Coulson tries to press a walking cane into his hand, Barton pushes it away. He walks to the jetway steadily but slowly, Coulson hovering at his elbow.

 The reports of Barton's long recovery obviously are accurate. Slater feels a gaze on him and turns to see Romanov watching him. But then the champagne-bearing attendant is back, blocking Slater's view, and when he can see clear again Romanov is at the door guiding Barton to a chair.

Coulson pauses in the doorway, counting and scanning the passengers, and then okays the pilot for takeoff. He either doesn't notice Slater--which is unlikely--or doesn't seem to mind him along on the trip. But Barton, easing himself down, catches sight of Slater and his expression flickers for just a moment.

Slater likes that. Feels a little thrill.

 It's irrational, but he glad Barton's anxious at seeing him. It'll be Ronald Slater's pleasure to ruin this weekend any surreptitious way he can and take Barton's place on the Avengers.

end of chapter


	6. Chapter 6

For Natasha, the first warning sign was when she picked Clint up at the airport after a mission to Amsterdam and he looked wretched.

"Air sick?" she asked.

"Wrong end," he said wanly as he maneuvered into the passenger seat with less grace than usual. He pulled his baseball cap down against the harsh glare of sunlight. "Stomach bug. They're going to have to fumigate that safe house." 

She pulled through airport traffic with ease. Once you'd learned to drive in Rome you could drive anywhere, and she was very good at driving in Rome. 

"Everyone got sick?" Natasha asked casually.

"No, just me." Clint drank from a bottle of water, reclined his seat, and crossed his arms over his chest."My bad luck."

Natasha didn't believe in luck. Or, more precisely, she didn't believe that luck was the primary driver of misfortune or tragedy. Certainly many unfortunate events resulted from being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but when it came to her line of work she had learned the hard lesson that beneath 'bad luck' there often lurked proximate causes that people failed to look for. 

"Don't look like that," Clint said, despite the fact his eyes were closed. 

"Like what?"

"Paranoid."

"Drink your water," she said

Coulson was tied up in San Francisco, so Natasha took Clint back to her own apartment at the tower. He immediately headed for the guest shower. She brought him the sweatshirt and pajama bottoms he kept stashed in her closet. He was half asleep under the hot spray behind the glass door. She didn't care that he was naked; they were long past caring about superficial things like that. He blinked at her when she handed him a washcloth lathered in soap.

"I know how to clean up," he protested.

"Then do it, unless you want me to climb in and help."

He managed a half-smile. "Phil's very territorial."

Natasha scoffed. "I'd climb in and help him, too, if he needed it. Hurry up. French toast is waiting."

He was a sucker for French toast, even if it did come frozen out of a box. Natasha had no patience for cooking from scratch when there were perfectly fine supermarkets all over the city. Sitting at her kitchen island, Clint managed one slice and half a glass of orange juice, which she thought wasn't half-bad. She'd already thrown a purple blanket and big pillow on the sofa for him, and he sank down on the cushions like he hadn't slept well in a week.

"Jarvis, queue up _House Hunters_ ," Natasha said.

"Not the international ones," Clint said, yawning into his pillow. "And nothing with rich whiners in it."

While he slept, Natasha bagged up the underwear he'd been wearing and sent it to tower's biolab for analysis by one of Tony's junior scientists. She also asked Jarvis to keep a watch on SHIELD's medical division for visits by anyone on Clint's Amsterdam team. After a moment she added an alert if anyone visited a pharmacy or off-site health clinic as well. It was totally inappropriate to spy on her colleagues and absolutely unethical to try and access their medical records, but words like appropriate and ethical didn't apply when it came to protecting the people that Natasha held dear. 

In fact, she had another word for anyone who cared to complain: unapologetic. 

Or maybe a few words, best not spoken around Captain America's delicate ears.

Clint napped for most of the day, rising once in awhile to spoon down ice cream or chicken soup. His color improved and she was less tempted to stick an IV of saline into him. When Phil called from San Francisco, Natasha went to use the treadmill in her bedroom suite and let them have some privacy. She wasn't surprised when Phil called her in the middle of her third mile.

"I don't like sudden unexplained illnesses," he said.

"Neither do I." Natasha didn't slow down, but did decrease her incline. "The lab ran tests on samples from his underwear. No sign of poison, salmonella, e. coli, a virus, or an infection. Idiopathic gastrointestinal distress."

"Are you keeping a watch on his teammates?" 

"I figured if I didn't, you would." She forwarded to him Jarvis's most recent report. Neither Lucky Heckles, Ronald Slater, or Mitch Anders had visited Medical or a private doctor, and none of them had bought any over-the-counter medicine since landing that morning. "No sign anyone else caught it, which is odd considering how small that house is."

Phil scanned the report. "I'll be back tomorrow morning. Keep an eye on him until then?"

"Of course."

When she returned to the living room, Clint was sitting cross-legged on the sofa and eating a bowl of peanut butter Captain Crunch. She hated the stuff. 

"Come watch," he said, and she sat beside him while a couple on TV faced the horror of basement mold.

"I'm sure he asked you to watch over me, but I'm a big boy now," Clint said. "Go out, go do something. It's Saturday night. Don't you and Bruce have a date or something?

"He's buried in his research."

"I'm sure you can figure out a way to extract him," Clint said. 

He offered a spoonful of his cereal. She ate it, and decided she still hated it.

"Let's binge-watch _Property Brothers_ ," Natasha said. "Drew's looking a little stressed lately. I'm worried about him."

When Phil returned the next morning he and Clint holed up in their apartment for two days. The reports from Jarvis on Clint's team mates continued to come up empty. Natasha was tempted to file the incident away as unimportant when, four months later, she heard Tony Stark talk about bringing Clint pizza on a mission in Antwerp. The coordinator on that mission was Ronald Slater. 

She started keeping a close watch on Slater, and Phil did too.

#

 Iron Man was leaving Finland--no need to know why, Tony would say, move on to the important part--when Jarvis alerted him that Hawkeye was in Antwerp. Jarvis was programmed to keep Tony updated whenever when of his teammates was nearby, even if 'nearby' was relative.

"Hey, Katniss," he said. "What kind of fun are you having down there?"

For a moment there was no answer, and Tony supposed Clint was on some tedious SHIELD mission where regulations kept him from using the tiny Stark radio that Tony had given everyone. But then Clint said, "I'm having no fucking fun at all, Tony, thanks for asking."

"Need backup?" Tony arced through the nighttime air, exhilarating in the thrill of a fast turn. "I'm over the Baltic Sea."

"I need a pizza," Clint said. "I'm starving."

"I think I own some pizzerias. Don't I, Jarvis?"

"In Ohio and Pennsylvania, sir," Jarvis offered. "You also own a company that manufactures pizza ovens and another company that makes those little pizza rolls that Director Fury likes so much."

"Stop talking about food before you kill me," Clint said.

"I'm tempted to ask why you can't just go get pizza yourself, but I wouldn't want to pry into top-secret spy business even if this is a secure encrypted line that even SHIELD can't break."

"Because my handler here is chickenshit," Clint replied.

"That I believe." Tony banked through the sky again. "Pepperoni or mushroom?"

He stopped in a late-night joint on the Lincolnstrasse in Hamburg, Germany, posed for some fan photos while waiting for his take-out order, and flew two very-well-wrapped pies to the rooftop of a nondescript building outside Antwerp. Clint was there, huddling in his jacket, teeth almost chattering as he said, "You're the best superhero ever no matter what anyone else says,Tony."

Tony preened as his helmet retracted. "Don't I know it. You got a room, or you stuck here on the roof?"

Clint nodded toward the open door to a stairwell and led Tony down in the darkness to a dusty bare room without windows. The light from Tony's suit was much better than the flashlight Clint had been using. Clint's movements were stiff and slow, entirely unlike him, and his boots squelched.

"Are you wet?" Tony asked.

"It rained earlier," Clint said grumpily. "Welcome to the Ritz. Give me that pie before I gnaw off your arm."

Tony handed over the food and, because he was hungry too, settled on the floor to eat a slice or two himself. He was no fan of seeing his own breath frost in the air, nor of watching Clint shiver, so he bled some heat out of the suit and said, "Get over here, will you? I'm not explaining to Coulson how I let his favorite guy turn into a popsicle." 

"I've never fallen in love with a fusion reactor before, but there's a first time for everything." Clint scooted up beside him, back to the wall. "I owe you."

"Considering you saved my life twice last month, I think the ledger's still unbalanced. So who's your chickenshit handler? I saw the bad guys parked in a truck down the block, and it looks like a Boy Scout troop could take them out."

Clint spoke around a mouth full of pizza. "Doesn't matter. Won't kill me to stay put until morning."

"I think Coulson would have an opinion on that. Let's call him."

"Absolutely not," Clint said, a hand on Tony's arm. "Don't."

Tony squinted at him. "Why not?"

"Because it's like you said." Clint looked away. "I'm his favorite guy."

"I'm a genius, Legolas, but I'm feeling slow on the uptake here." 

Clint put a half-eaten slice back in the box. "SHIELD gossip puts your average high school cafeteria to shame. I don't want people saying I pulled strings to get out of an uncomfortable situation. That because Phil and I sleep together, I can ask for special favors."

Tony hadn't spent years in therapy without picking up the ability to unpack statements like that. He could think of a dozen ways Katniss was wrong, and another dozen arguments that would utterly fail to persuade him to see things more clearly. He'd once promised Pepper that he wouldn't try to fix any of his fellow Avengers, who were each a little bit dysfunctional in their own unique ways, but some days were harder than others.

Well, Clint was cold, wet, and miserable, but with Tony around at least he was getting warmer and had a belly full of excellent German pizza. Despite the round-the-clock demands of being a billionaire inventor superhero, Tony had nowhere better to be than right here, right now.

"Guess what Jarvis and I installed," Tony said, aiming his right glove at the wall. A bright blue square flickered to life. "Blu-Ray. Got any requests? I've got the new Tarantino."

Clint gazed at the wall speculatively. "Can you get cable? I've missed all season of _Love It or List It_."

"Do I get cable," Tony muttered. "I'll excuse that because you're having a shitty day, but try not to insult me in the future, got it?"

"Got it," Clint said, and happily picked up that half-eaten slice again along with one of the water bottles Tony had snagged from the pizza joint's coolers.

Within a half hour Clint was asleep against Tony's shoulder and Tony was composing an offer of employment to co-host Hilary Farr, an interior designer who could really kick some ass. Clint's nap lasted through three more episodes before Ronald Slater's voice over the comms woke him. By dawn Clint was moving out and Tony was zooming across the Atlantic, belly full of pepperoni and mushrooms.

He mentioned the Hilary thing to Pepper the next time their hectic schedules crossed, which was in the common kitchen. Natasha and Bruce were there, too. Bruce was trying to teach Natasha how to cook rice without burning it and Natasha was explaining all the places in the city that would deliver rice free with Chinese or Indian food.

"Since when do you watch HGTV?" Pepper asked.

"Pizza date with Barton," Tony said, slapping mustard on a sandwich he was making for himself. "I brought the pies, and he introduced me to the wonders of Canadian home rehab."

Natasha asked, "Why did you bring Clint pizza? Everyone delivers."

"Not to Antwerp," Tony said proudly.

A few more questions later, Natasha slipped out of the room. Tony returned to the topic of hiring Hilary and never did ask where Natasha went.


	7. Chapter 7

"I want to talk to you about Ronald Slater," Phil said casually from his side of the bed, and Clint immediately stopped moving his hand under the sheets.

"I can't believe you brought up that name while we're doing this," Clint complained. His cheeks bore pillow marks, his hair was sticking wildly on end, and the pout on his lips was, in Phil's opinion, adorable. 

"While we're doing what?" Phil asked, purposefully bland and with one raised eyebrow.

Clint rolled onto his side, the rumpled white sheets bunched around his waist. Sunlight through the window blinds striped his bare torso in gold and shadow. Beneath the sheets he was gloriously nude. Phil, at least, had pulled on his favorite Hawkeye T-shirt before venturing out of their bedroom for the Sunday newspaper and the breakfast tray. The newspaper was currently spread across his lap, and they'd finished off their bagels with only a little cream cheese still smeared on Clint's chin and a few crumbs in Phil's lap.

Clint's hand moved up and down again inside his thigh, fingers curved against skin. "While you're ignoring me in favor of the editorial pages."

"I like the editorial pages," Phil said, adjusting his reading glasses. He hated wearing anything on his eyes, but Clint said squinting was giving him crow's feet wrinkles and Phil was vain enough to want to stave that off as long as possible. "If you need help, I'll get you some lotion."

"That crap doesn't help."

"I warned you not to roll around drunk in that field."

"Tony and I were making snow angels."

"In the summertime."

"For a good cause!" Clint protested. "Who else is going to throw a party for Natasha and Bruce's one month anniversary? How were we supposed to know there was poison ivy?"

"Hmmm," Phil said, and scanned above the fold. He was fairly sure he knew which shadow government agency had funded today's hawkish editorial, and wished they'd hired better ghostwriters. "I wonder how you could possibly have known. Could it have been the super-smart handler telling you so?" 

Clint put his head on Phil's thigh and looked at him through long lashes. "Super-smart _handler_?"

Phil scratched the side of Clint's head with his free hand. "Super-smart _senior agent_?"

Clint kissed Phil's fingers. 

"Super-smart _boyfriend_?" Phil asked. 

"My super-smart boyfriend," Clint agreed. "Warned us not to go rolling in the moonlit field of poison ivy. We should have listened to you. Would you like me to show you just how much I appreciate your super smartness?"

Clint's mouth moved dangerously close to Phil's groin before Phil caught on and swatted him lightly with the newspaper.

"You're trying to distract me from the topic of Ronald Slater," Phil said.

Clint rolled away and sighed. "Because why would I want to talk about him ever? He's a dick. So what. SHIELD is full of assholes, in case you haven't noticed."

"I've noticed." Phil put the paper aside in favor of his coffee cup. "I don't think you always notice, however."

"I notice everything," Clint said. "I just don't care."

"You don't care if he leaves you freezing and soaking wet overnight when he could have extracted you safely?"

Clint slid him a sideways look. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Iron Man Pizza Delivery Inc."

"I hope Tony's got poison ivy on his balls," Clint said vehemently. 

Phil sipped his coffee. He was tempted to say that Tony hadn't gone around spreading information about that night. Natasha had overheard him talking it, had quizzed him in her own subtle and not-so-subtle way, and then pulled the mission and weather reports. 

"I know what you're thinking," Clint said. "You think I'm bad at prioritizing myself over other people or mission parameters."

Phil hummed a little.

"You wouldn't want me to make myself the center of the universe, would you? " Clint asked.

"You are the center of mine," Phil said simply, and Clint gave him a long look They both knew Clint's history of abandonment and neglect by people who should have prioritized him--his parents, his teachers, the social workers who rotated in and out of his early years. It was hard for Clint to believe anyone truly would stay with him season after season, year after year. They'd been together almost four years now, but Phil thought they could stay together for forty years and Clint would still have a tiny voice in his head warning him against calling attention to himself, of asking for help, of expecting people to give him what he needed.

Clint finally looked away to the ceiling. "Slater's a dick, but it's not like I don't know how to disobey orders or walk away if I have to. I can put up with a lot of shit when it comes to SHIELD."

"But you shouldn't have to. You're an Avenger."

"Yeah, that world doesn't exist," Clint said. "I don't know if you've noticed, but there's a lot of people jealous they're not on the team. Resentful. Or the opposite. They suck up to be my friend just because they want Thor's autograph or a selfie with the big Green Guy."

Phil put his cup aside and slid down further on the pillows so that he and Clint were side-by-side, gazing upward at the high white ceiling. "People want selfies with the Hulk?"

"A lot of people."

"More than Steve?"

"More than Steve and Tony combined."

Phil spared a moment to be indignant that Captain America was not the number one choice of selfie-seeking civilians everywhere. But then he rolled against Clint and kissed one sweet, bare shoulder. 

"You're slotted for that assignment in Ghent next week with Slater, while I'm away," Phil said. "I get that you don't want people to think you're pulling strings or asking for special favors, even though you regularly risk your life against killer robots and crazy supervillains and anything else the Avengers go up against. But promise me that you won't let him pull crap you wouldn't allow him to pull with me or Natasha."

The side of Clint's mouth curved up. "Oh, that's sneaky."

"I'm your super-smart senior agent handler boyfriend," Phil said. "It's my job to be sneaky. Promise?"

Clint looked thoughtful. "You got any incentives?"

"Like what?"

Clint took Phil's hands and showed him exactly what he meant. Incentives were offered, and a promise made.

But the assignment in Ghent went to hell anyway.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all for your patience, and especially to those who left encouraging notes re my delays for sick kitties, root canal, and other stressful life events. There should be 1 more part after this one. Happy Holidays!

Ronald Slater's irrational hatred of Clint Barton will end with Barton's death tonight.

Dying at a fabulous hotel on a beautiful Caribbean island is a better end than most agents of SHIELD will see, so in a way this is a favor. It's also a blessing to die surrounded by friends, isn't it? Though they won't be there at the moment of his death, they'll carry his broken body up from the rocks at the base of this cliff and see to it that he has a proper wake and funeral. Slater will attend both in his finest suit and a suitably grieving demeanor. After a heartfelt if erroneous eulogy (Hawkeye is no better than anyone else and has many, many flaws. Why can't they see that?) the Avengers will surely invite Slater to fill the space on the team. 

No, not just invite. Beg him to join. He can almost hear the pleading in Tony Stark's voice, see the heartfelt need in Thor's eyes. Bruce Banner will shyly offer him tea. Captain America will appeal to Slater's patriotism and invoke the good of the nation. Even Romanov will have to ask nicely, and he's going to enjoy making her grovel. 

Standing on his balcony under the warm pink and yellow skies of sunset, the breeze gentle on his face and fine glass of wine in his hand, Slater imagines his bright and shining future.

The private, opulent hotel is built into the side of a cliff because Tony Stark enjoys heights and panoramic views. Like an enormous blue green carpet, the Caribbean ocean and all of its secrets spreads before Slater as far as his eyes can see. Ships and boats sail toward St. Thomas as steel band music floats up from the large terrace where Barton's birthday celebration will be. Fine food, finer liquor; Slater knows to expect the best, but the best thing tonight will not be anything on the menu.

Barton himself is on the balcony a few floors beneath Slater, and his balcony juts out further over the cliffside. Dressed in loose jeans and a white shirt, Barton is leaning on the railing looking down at the water. His profile is of a man wrangling with physical infirmity and internal doubts. During the weekend so far, Slater has seen him struggling to get out of a chair by himself, almost lose his balance at breakfast, and shake his head when Coulson tried to persuade him into the glass elevator descending to the beach. Barton doesn't talk much to his friends, which is pretty inconsiderate given they've all come here to celebrate his special day.

Barton leans further out over the ocean. Slater wonders if he means to jump. That would be expedient, but rob Slater of his chance at revenge.

He pauses, then, because there's no good reason for him to want revenge. His hand tightens on the wine glass. He tries to remind himself why Barton is so despicable. The proof is right on the tip of his memories, but the harder he tries to grab them, the quicker the details slip away.

For not the first time he feels like a puppet under someone else's control, but the sensation passes quickly. 

Down below, Barton turns as Coulson joins him on the terrace. Their voices drift upward but not loud enough for Slater to make out what they're saying. Coulson stands very close, his hands on Barton's hips, his head tipped forward against Barton's with an intimacy that Slater finds uncomfortable. No one has ever gazed that way into Slater's eyes. Both men lean against the steel and glass railing, which seems sturdy enough and is certainly built to withstand any number of guests and tourists.

But steel can corrode, and accidents sometimes happen.

In fact, an accident will happen tonight. Gravity and the treacherous rocks below will put an end to Slater's irrational hatred by removing Clint Barton from humanity forever and clearing the way for Slater to achieve his rightful place in the Avengers.

Slater will make sure of it.

# 

The party is full of music, food, and laughter. Clint appreciates all the effort and time Tony has put into this. Though it was probably Pepper who arranged the details--the ice sculpture of an archer with bow and arrow, the purple-tinged lanterns swinging in the breeze, the tiered chocolate cream cake decorated like a circus tent. When it comes to anything outside of his robots, computers and weapons, Tony lets loose with big ideas and leaves Pepper to handle the execution.

Regardless of who ordered the cake, Clint's reaching for a second delicious piece when Natasha's voice in his ear says, "Careful. You're supposed to be wasting away."

"I am wasting away," Clint murmurs. "That's what you've been telling me for weeks and weeks."

Ever since the exploding castle in Ghent he's had a problem with vertigo, which in turn affects his appetite. It's hard to keep food down when the world is spinning. The problem is getting better, though, and the doctors are optimistic that it will resolve itself, but in the meantime Clint's dropped a size or two. He figures he'll gain it back once he's released from physical therapy and back into full training, because there's nothing like a day on the range or at the gym to make him ravenously hungry.

Regretfully he puts aside the cake knife and the plate in his hands. He turns around to the terrace where his friends are dancing and mingling. That they all came together for this night and for him is an unexpected development. Thanks to a few overzealous nuns and their hard wooden rulers he's never been fond of words like _blessing_ and _gratitude_ but it's time to admit to himself, if not anyone within earshot, how touched he is. 

Phil is standing several feet away, cheering on Thor and Lucy Freckles in a game that seems suspiciously like Asgardian cornhole. Phil looks amazing in dark slacks and a white shirt open at the throat, the ordinary bureaucrat gone for the night in place of a relaxed, handsome man who just happens to own Clint's heart. Phil looks over, sensing Clint's gaze, and although his smile doesn't fade one eyebrow arches up in a silent question: Everything okay?

Clint nods slightly. Everything is as okay as it can be, on this night full of music under the stars. More than okay, if it ends with Phil in his arms at bedtime. But that moment hasn't come yet, and he's not sure it will. He glances toward where Nat and Bruce are sitting on a low wall, the breeze ruffling the pink hem of her skirt, Bruce's glasses reflecting torchlight but not the love in his eyes. He's happy for them, and hopes that happiness continues forever.

But it probably won't, because they all lead lives that statistically end badly with broken bodies or damaged minds or both. Or sudden death. Or long and torturous deaths. No matter how amazed he is that Phil rounded up so many friends of theirs to share these fleeting moments of celebration, in a few decades they'll all be in graves marked or unmarked. Well, maybe not Thor, but mere mortals counted their days on paper calendars while gods marked their centuries in stone. 

The uneasy feeling in his gut that he's been carrying all day ratchets upward, and Clint turns away. In the circus days of his youth he'd relished being the center of attention, but since Ghent and all the weeks of recovery afterward, he's felt vulnerable and unsure of himself. The Avengers have treated him well all around, but he knows he's a hindrance to them. He's sure that when they look at him they see only his weaknesses. That when he's not around, they're plotting for his replacement.

He's maudlin now, and inwardly tries to shake it off. He needs focus now, not melancholy. Tony is starting to recruit Sitwell, May, Lucy Freckles and some others for a line dance, and that's Clint's cue to retreat.

As he leaves the terrace Nat's voice says, "Don't take unnecessary chances." The tiny Stark earbud carries every nuance of her worry. In response he scratches his right ear. He doesn't look her way to see if the message has been received. He might be still struggling back to full strength, but he's not a rookie.

His and Phil's suite is not far, and is blessedly dark but for silver moonlight spilling through the windows. The balcony doors are open, the sheer curtains stirring in the breeze. Clint toes off his shoes, grabs a beer from the fridge, and takes it out to find some solace in the sea and stars. He enjoys the feeling of the cool tiles under his bare feet and the cold glass bottle against his palms. If he leans forward far enough over the railing, he can see where the waves rush back and forth over sharp rocks seventy feet below. As a little kid he'd liked stories of pirates. He imagines Phil in black leather boots and an eyepatch and a long purple coat, hiding his treasure chest in some cave along the coast--

A slight noise pulls him from his imagination and he turns to see Ronald Slater framed in the doorway, a champagne flute in his right hand.

"Careful," Slater says, silky smooth. "That's a long drop."

Clint keeps his expression bland. "I'm not worried."

"Accidents happen," Slater says. "Happy birthday, by the way. Not everyone gets to have an expensive party on a tropical island paid for by a rich superhero. You're a lucky guy."

"Stark's very generous," Clint agrees. "What do you want, Ronald?"

Slater steps forward. "To say happy birthday. To see how you're doing. When you save a life you're responsible for it, and so you're my responsibility."

Clint smiles humorlessly. "Is that what you did? Save my life?"

"Twice. Don't tell me your memory's that bad."

"My memories are just fine," Clint lies. It's true that there are some holes. Some moments he can't bring out of the murk of pain and drugs, panic and exhaustion. But other fuzzy details have gotten clearer during his recovery, and weeks of painstaking work by Phil and Tony have made clear a few situations that weren't at all clear before.

Slater steps forward. He's Clint's own size, deceptively mild-mannered. To look at him you wouldn't know he's well-trained in martial arts and self-defense. Under normal circumstances Clint can take him in a fight without any effort at all. Nothing about this is normal, however, and Clint edges back fractionally against the railing. 

"You remember Ghent," Slater says, and the undercurrent in his voice is hard to decipher. "I nearly got sliced in half by glass shielding you with my own body."

Clint drinks from his beer. The liquid is sour on his tongue. "That's what the report says."

"You doubt it?"

"I remember you leaving," Clint says. Behind Slater, the curtains billow and Clint remembers windows crashing inward, the ground heaving upward. He puts his free hand to the railing to steady himself. "I fell and you left."

Slater's chin lifts. "I came back. They found us in the rubble, and you'd be dead without me to shield you."

"Lucky that we both survived, huh?" Clint asks. 

Slater raises his champagne and takes a sip. "They gave me a medal. And a raise. Save a superhero, you get a bump in pay. A fine reward."

The undercurrent sounds like bitterness. Rage at not being rewarded enough. Clint has his own SHIELD medals, and his paycheck's exactly where it should be. He's suspicious of anyone who puts too much value on external motivators. Neither pretty objects nor direct deposit get him out of bed each day to throw himself at danger and save innocent people.

Clint says, "Funny thing about the hospital, though. That allergic reaction that almost killed me? Latex powder all over my bedsheets. No accident there."

Slater takes another step forward. "Any suspects?"

"The camera covering the hallway to my room was broken," Clint said. "Deliberately disabled."

"I found you gasping on that bathroom floor," Slater says. "If I'd wanted you dead, I could have waited a moment or two more. Not called for the nurse at all."

"Maybe dead isn't what you want," Clint suggests.

Slater smiles. Phil has said, more than once, that Clint's never met a snake he didn't want to poke. It wasn't a compliment. Clint knows that sometimes he can get under other people's skin, but he also knows how to provoke on purpose.

He wonders how nearby Phil and Nat are. He wonders if they'll come in time. Snakes are dangerous creatures, and often unpredictable. He really wants to hold Phil in bed tonight, and to see Nat continue to smile at Bruce. 

"Tell me, Ronald," Clint says, and though he tries for smooth his voice maybe has the same faint tremble as his hand on the railing. "What do you want?"

#

This is Slater's moment. He recognizes and savors it the way a football star does in a stadium full of cheering fans, ready to kick the ball on a certain victory arc through the field posts. 

"I only want what's due to me," he says, moving forward again. He enjoys the way Barton pulls back. The coward probably doesn't even realize he's doing it. "I want people to recognize my talents and stop patting you on the back for nothing at all. I want them to congratulate me on all my hard work and recognize that you're nothing special, Barton. You slide by with a smile and wink and a fucking bow and arrow, and people treat you like a god."

"Actually, they treat Thor like a god," Barton says, because he never shuts up when he should. He slides back toward the corner of the railing. "Ever been to Asgard, Ronald? I have. Great food, and you can beat the views."

"I'll get there one day," Slater promises. "Once you're gone."

Barton cocks his head. "Where am I going?"

From the hotel's main terrace, a burst of noise. Beautiful purple and gold fireworks blossom in the sky behind Barton's head. Of course Tony Stark would arrange for fireworks. Slater wouldn't be surprised if a sparkly blimp with Barton's name on it sails on by as well, or maybe a rocketship with the word "Hawkeye" will launch to the moon. The Avengers are all about overkill.

"For years I've watched you get all the attention and rewards," Slater says, "but that ends now. You're right that at first I just wanted to inconvenience you. To teach you that you're no better than the rest of us lowly field agents. To put you in your place. But now it's been made clear to me that your place is at the bottom of this cliff."

More fireworks explode in the sky, throwing white and silver light in cascades. The light sparkles on the sea, and everything is all the more gorgeous because Barton can't see them. 

"Who made it clear to you?" Barton asks. "Who told you to kill me, Ronald?"

At that Slater hesitates, because it's a legitimately interesting question. He probes at it like he would a missing tooth in his mouth or hole in his pocket. He remembers a voice, a white light; a directive that became a compunction. But thinking too hard on that leads to a warning of pain to come, of being punished for daring to ask why.

"It doesn't matter," Slater decides. "Goodbye, _Hawkeye_."

He takes his pistol from his pocket and aims it squarely at Barton's chest. Barton retreats another inch, and the railing that Slater loosened finally gives way.

Barton has no chance against gravity and momentum. He falls backward, face stunned, arms grasping for a hold that's not there. He gives out a short cry for help. Help from friends who are not here. Then he's gone forever, vanished into the dark air as easily as if he'd never existed at all.

Slater waits to feel a surge of victory.

Instead, something snaps hard in his head and sends him to his knees.

He hears his kneecaps clunk into the tiles. Feels his gun fall from his fingers. His vision turns red and gray, and something hot gushes against his lips. Slater touches blood streaming from his nose, so much that surely he'll pass out soon.

The terrace is suddenly crowded with people: Phil Coulson, Natasha Romanov, Bruce Banner. Someone has kicked the gun away. Someone has a knife to Slater's throat. He can barely see, can't think straight, can't feel anything but disorientation and panic and guilt. He thinks he just killed someone. He thinks he's dying.

"Finally," Natasha Romanov says vengefully. "We should have done this weeks ago."

Coulson sounds calmer but very somber. "Agent Slater, you are hereby charged with assault, attempted murder, attempted murder again--" 

Bruce Banner interrupts Coulson. "He needs an ambulance. That's no ordinary nosebleed--"

Slater can't keep his balance anymore. He falls forward into hands that maneuver him roughly to the ground. Fireworks. Faces. Everything spins, becomes indistinguishable from the crisis raging inside his own body. He thinks he hears the whoosh of Iron Man's propulsion, and then improbably Clint Barton's voice saying, "What did you do to him?"

The world is going black. He doesn't think he'll live more than another moment or two. He feels like he should apologize, but he doesn't know for what. He wishes he had more time, a second chance, an explanation of where things went wrong. He tries to talk but there's only a humiliating garble of words; he tries to reach up for the sky, but his hands won't work anymore.

An ocean of darkness and pain drowns him.

end of chapter

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hoping to update as frequently as possible. Constructive feedback, typos, etc always welcome.


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